


Life's like a play

by Cinaed



Series: Turin Turambar, Movie Star [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Epistolary, Gen, M/M, POV Male Character, Pre-Slash, Social Media, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4519860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear readers of Saeros Saeys, you will be delighted to learn that Túrin Turambar has decided to become an <em>actor</em>. I'm placing bets now on what kind of disaster this turns out to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's like a play

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to "And the award goes to...." 
> 
> Thanks go out to sath for encouraging me with this, and liveoak, who reminded me I should actually write more in this universe. Also I guess happy birthday to me for finishing a fic. 
> 
> There are a few things that didn't match with the archive warnings, so if you want the potential spoilers, they're at the end of the fic.

 

 

 

 

> **Túrin Turambar, Movie Star?!**
> 
> From Saeros Saeys
> 
> \--
> 
> Anyone who pays the smallest attention to celebrities or has frequented my blog knows about the Turambar power couple. They have dominated celebrity news for much of the past twenty-five years since their individual rises to fame and fortune and their subsequent meeting and marriage.
> 
> Hurin, known for his award-winning music, has often graced this blog due to his entertaining and long-standing feud with Melkor Records. His wife Morwen once dazzled us from the cover of every popular magazine during the height of her modeling career. Though rumors circulate that she is past her prime, she has kept herself current with her fashion line and her position as the sharp-tongued head judge on Middle-Earth’s Next Top Model.
> 
> However, less is known about their children, eighteen-year-old Túrin, sixteen-year-old Lalaith, and nine-year-old Niënor, whom Hurin and Morwen have kept out of the public eye since the tragic car accident thirteen years ago that seriously injured Lalaith and their chauffeur.
> 
> Now at last Túrin has answered the question we’ve all been wondering: will he follow in his father’s footsteps or his mother’s?
> 
> The answer: neither. Túrin Turambar has decided to _act_.
> 
> Yes, you read that correctly, dear readers!
> 
> Yesterday Doriath Productions announced that Túrin will be starring in their upcoming movie _The Keys to the Kingdom_ , based on the popular young adult fantasy series by Beren Erchamion that recounts the forbidden love and adventures of a princess and a wanderer with a mysterious past.
> 
> Will Túrin be a success or an abject failure? Only time will tell, but I have my doubts. The few times I’ve encountered Túrin, he‘s been sullen and unfriendly. If he gets that upset over a few harmless questions from yours truly, I can’t wait to see how his first press tour goes….

 

* * *

 

“Good luck,” Lalaith had signed that morning, her fingers flashing the sentiment three times before she’d laughed soundlessly and hugged him. Niënor had joined her, pressing her face against his arm and telling him that he’d be amazing, no matter what their mother believed about acting.

Túrin thought of them as Thingol and Melian introduced him to the cast and crew. He smiled politely at everyone and fought his steadily rising panic as he forgot each and every one of their names.

“Nice to meet you. Looking forward to working with you,” he repeated until his throat was dry and his voice grew hoarse. When Melian showed him to his dressing room and gently suggested that he acquaint himself with the space, he waited until she closed the door to collapse into his chair with a groan.

There was a bottle of water on his table, condensation still beading the outside. He drank most of it. Then he rubbed the rest onto the back of his neck until he felt a bit less like he was going to spontaneously combust from nerves.

“I can do this,” he muttered. He frowned as the mirror reflected his doubtful expression.  “I _can_.” He was excited about the film. So were his sisters, who loved Mr. Erchamion’s books and were cautiously optimistic about a faithful adaptation since Mr. Erchamion had co-written the screenplay. Even Sador had called the night before to wish him good luck. And his parents-- well. They weren’t pleased, but they were at least resigned to giving him this chance.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” he said.

He stood as Melian swept inside. She wore a dazzling smile that reminded him of his mother, when his father coaxed a rare laugh from her. Melian’s smiles seemed to come more easily to her face, though, and she chuckled as she said, “Feeling a bit less overwhelmed? Good. Beleg was running late and I wanted to be sure that you two were introduced since he’s going to be your stunt-double.”

“Oh,” Túrin said, and then looked at the man standing behind her. Immediately every word fell out of his head. He knew that face, covered in freckles, and the easy smile that had been constant during his interviews. “You’re Beleg Cúthalion,” he said, amazed. “You were Thingol’s stunt-double in _Mistress of the Woods_ and Glorfindel’s in--” Realizing that he was going to start rattling off all of Beleg’s films like a weird stalker, he stopped, blushing.  

Beleg looked a little startled. Then he grinned. “I see someone watches the behind the scenes videos. I always wondered if anyone did.”

“I do,” Túrin said earnestly. “Stunt-people don’t get the credit they deserve. Without you, action scenes aren’t worth watching. I always thought there should be awards--” Then Melian’s words registered. “You’re _my_ stunt-double?”

When Beleg nodded, Túrin stared. It was one thing to witness those corded muscles flexing in the videos. It was quite another to be this close to Beleg’s solid frame, to see how much broader his shoulders were in real life. Túrin shook his head. “I’ll need to bulk up to match.” He only realized how he sounded when the corner of Beleg’s mouth twitched. “I mean--”

Melian coughed. When Túrin looked at her, she was smiling. “My concern is that you don’t get any taller during filming. I feel like you’ve grown since I saw you last month.”

Túrin smiled self-consciously. “Only a little.”

“Taking after your mother,” Melian said, sounding approving.

Beleg stepped forward. "Try not to grow for another three months, would you? Wearing thick-soled boots during filming is a bit awkward," he said, though his smile suggested that he was joking.

Túrin was distracted again as Beleg offered his hand. Hesitating, he shook Beleg’s hand, remembering his mother's admonishments that he gripped sometimes too hard and other times too gently. He must have done it correctly, because he was answered by another grin and a firm squeeze of Beleg’s callused fingers. "I'll try," he said when Beleg let go. "And, um, it's great to meet you. I was really impressed by that archery scene in _Mistress of the Woods_. How did you keep from falling off the horse?"

"I didn't during the first three takes," Beleg said ruefully. He rubbed his side and shook his head. "The bruises were impressive."

"I need to check in with Mablung," Melian said. Túrin blinked at her, having half-forgotten she was there. Perhaps that reflected in his face, because Melian sounded amused as she added, "Beleg, would you mind giving Túrin the tour?"

"I wouldn't mind at all," Beleg said, smiling.  

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

“Cut!” Mablung said. He sighed. “I don’t think we’re going to get this scene tonight. Let’s try this again in the morning, all right?”

Túrin swallowed down a frustrated protest. He slumped against the wall, closing his eyes against Mablung’s disappointed look. He wanted to apologize, but it stuck in his throat. He just shook his head at Neva’s soft, “It’s all right, Turin. We’re all a little tired.” Failing at the same scene ten times wasn’t all right by any stretch of the imagination.

“Hey,” said a soft voice.

Túrin opened his eyes and tried to smile at Beleg. He didn’t really succeed.

Beleg’s expression softened. At some point everyone else had left, leaving them alone in the fake battle scene. Thankfully the fake blood had dried, or else Beleg’s boots would’ve been stained red. “Hey,” he said again, squeezing Túrin’s shoulder. “We all have bad days. Don’t worry about it.”

“Right,” Túrin said. “Don’t worry about wasting everyone’s time because I can’t act.” Frustration sharpened the words.  

“You can act,” Beleg said firmly. “This is a difficult scene. Nerebon is dying. Nobody expects you to get it perfect on your first take.”

“They probably expect me to get it by my tenth though.” Still miserable, Túrin accepted Beleg’s hand and let him haul him to his feet. He resisted the urge to lean into Beleg’s grip. He could just imagine Saeros’s next article: more stuff about Mablung looking for a replacement.

“Mablung isn’t going to fire you,” Beleg said. As Túrin blinked, he sighed. “I know that look. Túrin, you’ve got to stop letting Saeros get to you. No one pays attention to him.”

“I know, but,” Túrin said. His throat closed on him again. He remembered Mablung’s mounting frustration and Neva’s kind encouragement, both of which had just made him feel worse with every failed attempt. He scowled. “I just want to stop screwing up.”

Beleg patted his shoulder. “Like I said, it’s a difficult scene. Believable death scenes always are. How about we practice it, just you and me? I’ll play you so you can see first-hand how to do it.” He grinned. “I’m told I die wonderfully.”

Túrin barked out a reluctant laugh. Still, hope warmed him. With Beleg helping, he might succeed. Beleg was a better teacher than anyone else he knew, and good at explaining things in a way Túrin understood. “Okay, if you don’t mind putting up with me.”

Beleg’s smile went crooked. He said quietly, “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to help.”

Túrin flushed a little, uncomfortable at the earnest, unflinching way Beleg spoke. “Well, thanks.” He scratched his jaw, grimacing when some fake blood flaked off. “I think Mîm took the swords back to the prop table.”

“The problem is that you keep thinking about the audience,” Beleg said as they walked. “You’re too busy worrying they’ll think it’s melodramatic or ridiculous. You’re not in Nerebon’s head. You’re stuck in your own.”

“Yeah,” Túrin said. He laughed humorlessly. “Now I just need to figure out how to get out of it.”

Beleg took one of the prop swords from the table and stepped back. He swept it through the air, getting a feel for it as he said, “I’ll show you it’s possible to die without looking like an idiot. Think that will help?”

Túrin tried to smile. He took another sword from the table. He held the weighted blade and made a few experimental strokes of his own. “Maybe.” Then he settled into an opening stance, assuming Thogrom’s usual sneer. “Worried for your princess?”

Beleg answered with a lunge, one Túrin easily dodged. They circled each other, and Túrin thought of Nerebon, kind and stubborn and devoted to the princess, a man whose dying wish was only to have her face be the last thing he saw.

“Goodbye, Nerebon,” he said, and Beleg let him knock his blade aside. Then Túrin lunged, watching Beleg’s expression change as the sword struck home. The blade resisted strangely; the collapse mechanism must be sticky.

Beleg gasped as though Túrin had driven the breath from his lungs.

Smiling his victory, Túrin looked into Beleg’s face and thought how Beleg could’ve been an actor too. He played Nerebon’s confidence giving way to dismay amazingly, going pale with shock, his expression suddenly unfamiliar with pain.

But then Beleg went off-script. He fumbled for Túrin’s wrist. “Túrin.” The name was said through gritted teeth. “T- _Túrin_ \--”

Túrin saw red spreading across Beleg’s shirt. He had a second to wonder why Beleg was wearing a fake blood packet, and then the smell of blood hit his nose. He reeled. Horror turned his legs weak.“No,” he whispered, and caught Beleg as he fell. Beleg was too heavy, but Túrin refused to drop him. They sank together to the ground as Túrin tried to yell for help. It came out as a whisper. “Help.”

All he could smell was blood. The car had smelled like this, he remembered, Lalaith and Sador’s blood choking the air so that he couldn't breathe. They’d both been quiet, just as quiet as Beleg was now, even while Túrin had strained in his seat and tried to reach for Lalaith through the crushed metal, calling her name.  

“Beleg,” he said. A sob rose in his throat when Beleg groaned. He curled his hand around the edge of the blade, trying to staunch the blood. Should he take the sword out? No, Beleg might bleed out then. A sob escaped him at the thought. “Please.”

“Túrin!”

Túrin didn’t dare move, but he gasped in relief at Lúthien’s horrified voice. “Please,” he said, and somehow managed to raise his voice above a whisper. “The sword-- the prop table-- we--” He gave up on explanations.

“Beren, call an ambulance,” Lúthien said, and then she knelt. She settled behind Beleg, so that she and Túrin were bracing him together. Her hand settled over Túrin’s, which had begun to shake.

Her face was pale, but her voice was brisk as she said, “Well, Beleg, I’m sure you’ll have words for whoever put a real sword on the prop table. Just stay with us. Please.” Now her voice wobbled, and Túrin remembered that she'd known Beleg for years.

“Beleg,” he said. There was no answer, except Beleg's ragged breathing and then Beren's calm voice, telling Túrin he needed to keep pressure on the wound and that everything was going to be okay. Túrin matched Beleg breath for breath, his chest tight with fear, until the EMTs arrived and Lúthien and Beren pulled him away.   

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

“Sir, you can’t be here!”

Bewildered, Beleg tried to open his eyes. After a few seconds, he got them open. It took a few more seconds before the smudges resolved into Túrin and an unfamiliar woman dressed in scrubs.

“You can’t be here,” the nurse said again, red-faced. She tugged at Túrin’s arm, but she might as well have been trying to move a mountain. Túrin didn’t budge, his face set in despondent, mulish lines. “You’re not family--”

Beleg watched. He probably should’ve been concerned by the nurse’s strident yelling, and the beeping machines around him, and the fact that he was in what seemed to be a hospital bed. Instead he felt calm and numb, all his emotions distant and impossible to reach. He tried to say something, and coughed instead.

The sound drew both Túrin and the nurse’s attention. “Mr. Cúthalion!” said the nurse, but Túrin spoke over her, crying Beleg’s name.

When Túrin dropped to his knees next to the bed, Beleg saw that his eyes were red-rimmed as though he’d been weeping. “Beleg,” he said again, and took in a harsh breath. Tears filled his eyes. He pressed his face against the bed spread, next to Beleg’s hand. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The broken whisper wore away at the numbness. Groggy and concerned, Beleg touched Túrin’s hair and tried to stroke it in reassurance. He wanted to say Túrin’s name, but his throat hurt too much to speak. He kept stroking Túrin’s hair, his arms too heavy to otherwise move.

“Come on,” the nurse said, in a different tone. “You’ll wear your knees out. Sit in in this chair.” This time when she tugged at Túrin’s arm, he obeyed, raising his head out of Beleg’s reach as he slumped into the chair she offered. He stared at Beleg, tears still bright in his eyes. Then the nurse turned her attention to Beleg. “Mr. Cúthalion, do you remember what happened?”

Beleg tried to think. His memories were murky, like he’d just come out of some strange nightmare. When he tried to reach for the memory before the nurse’s yell had woken him up, he came up blank. Drowsiness muddled everything.

Perhaps if he concentrated, he thought, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

> **Who’s Next?**
> 
> From Saeros Saeys
> 
> \--
> 
> In the aftermath of stunt-man Beleg Cúthalion’s stabbing at the hands of lead actor Túrin Turambar, one begins to wonder what is going on at Doriath Productions.
> 
> Not only is Turambar _not_ facing criminal charges, but a recent press release from the studio revealed that Cúthalion won't be suing Doriath Productions for negligence. Instead Cúthalion has signed on as Turambar’s agent.
> 
> Does anyone else think this seems strangely convenient? Cúthalion will never work as a stunt-man again. Medical records leaked to this blog via unknown sources revealed the extent of his injuries in our previous article. Why wouldn’t he seek retribution against the man and studio that cost him his career? Certainly if _I_  were stabbed and permanently disabled, I would want justice.
> 
> But perhaps Cúthalion is getting compensation in other ways. Hurin and Morwen have money to spare; perhaps they paid off the man their son so grievously injured. So far they have both been suspiciously silent about the incident. At the time of this article, neither could be reached for comment. 
> 
> More interestingly, careful investigation by yours truly has revealed a betting pool on the set of _The Key to the Kingdom_ , one that speculated that by the end of filming Turambar would be involved with his co-star Nellas, or with Cúthalion, or, shockingly, with both. Could Cúthalion becoming Turambar’s agent signal an answer to the cast and crew’s speculation? 
> 
> Fear not, dear readers, your loyal Saeros is as devoted to the truth as ever, and will be following the future of Cúthalion and Turambar _very_ closely.
> 
> Another concern, however, troubles me. Now that Turambar has discovered he can stab someone without consequence, will he turn his attention to Mablung? Rumors continue to persist that he is still unhappy with Turambar's performance and is trying to seek a replacement. I, for one, fear for the director's health....  

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for reference to non-graphic injury to Lalaith as a child and to Beleg, though they both recover.


End file.
